Your Truth or Mine?

by Trisha Sakhlecha

  Robins nods. ‘How did Emily feel about your decision?’

  ‘She wasn’t happy.’

  ‘She wanted to carry on the affair?’

  ‘She didn’t see why it had to end.’

  Robins frowns. She looks at Wilson. ‘Isn’t she meant to be leaving for Australia soon?’

  Wilson nods slowly. ‘Just after Christmas, in three weeks.’

  ‘That’s what I said. I tried to reason with her.’

  ‘Break-ups can be hard. I can imagine how angry you must have been.’

  ‘I . . . well, yes. Emily and I, we were supposed to be casual. No strings.’

  ‘You broke up with her last week?’ Wilson asks.

  ‘No, I told you, last month. November.’

  Robins checks her folder. ‘But you met her last week?’

  I nod. ‘Emily took it pretty hard. When she reached out last week, I agreed to see her one last time.’

  Robins leans forward, elbows on knees, and looks me in the eye. ‘How did that go?’

  I look away. I think back to the last time I saw her: her pulse throbbing beneath my hands, the colour draining out of her face, her fingers clawing at me. My hand goes automatically to the small bruise behind my ear. I shake my head slowly and look at Robins with my best how-did-this-happen face. ‘She was calmer. She said she was looking forward to Sydney. She wanted us to stay in touch. She looked fine, happy.’

  ‘Emily asked to meet you?’

  ‘She begged me to.’ I know the story I’m trying to spin. The responsible married man who realizes he made a mistake and tries to put things right; the pushy young woman who tries to cling on to a fleeting affair but can’t. The only logical ending is that she decided to run away, get away from it all. She’ll turn up once she realizes she needs to move on. She just needs some time to figure it all out. Not the whole truth but not a million miles from it either.

  ‘This was on Friday?’

  ‘No, Wednesday. At the pub. In Archway.’ I speak slowly. They are both a bit slow for CID detectives.

  ‘Ah, right. Sorry, I keep getting my dates mixed up. My husband keeps telling me I’ve got Alzheimer’s.’ She attempts a fake laugh.

  Or perhaps that’s what they want me to think.

  ‘You remember that,’ Wilson says, rolling his eyes. ‘Have you been in touch with Emily since you last saw her?’

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘Look, we’ve been over this before . . .’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Robins says. ‘But like you said, you weren’t entirely honest with us last time.’

  ‘Well, I’ve told you everything there is to tell now. So if there isn’t anything else . . .’

  Wilson looks at Robins. An almost imperceptible nod and he takes over.

  ‘Where were you on Friday, Mr Kapoor?’ Wilson asks, sitting down on the sofa next to Robins.

  I look at Robins but her face is unreadable. I feel my confidence start to flounder.

  ‘Friday?’ I pretend to think for a minute, and then add, ‘I had a breakfast meeting in town.’

  ‘Where?’ Wilson interrupts.

  It hits me that they’re looking at my story the wrong way around. They’re seeing a vulnerable young woman who tries to cling on to an ill-fated affair and a married man who realizes he has everything to lose, but can’t so he gets rid of her. This one’s not a million miles from the truth either.

  ‘Notes, near Charing Cross.’

  Robins scribbles in her folder and nods at me to carry on.

  I hesitate for a moment but I have no option but to tell them this next part truthfully. They will find out eventually and if I tell them myself, perhaps I can steer the story my way. ‘I came back home, sent some emails, had lunch, then drove down to Brighton to see a friend.’

  Robins’ head jolts up from her folder. I know exactly what she’s thinking.

  ‘That’s a long way to go for a friend,’ Wilson smirks. ‘What time did you leave your house?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . . must be around six p.m.’

  ‘And you got back . . .?’

  ‘I stayed over. I came home on Saturday afternoon.’

  Robins and Wilson exchange a look before he hammers on. ‘I see.’ He turns to Robins. ‘Seaford is, what, twelve miles from Brighton?’

  Robins nods. ‘Lovely little town for a day trip,’ she says, ‘so much quieter.’

  ‘Look, I’m trying to help you guys out, but this is starting to feel like an interrogation. What’s going on? Do I need to be worried?’

  ‘Not at all. You’ve been so helpful. But you know what it’s like in these cases, Siddhant,’ Robins says. She pronounces my birth name wrong. ‘May I call you Siddhant?’

  ‘Roy,’ I correct her.

  She keeps her eyes on me a second too long.

  ‘Okay, so, Roy, as I was saying, you know what it’s like in these cases. The first port of call is always the husband or the boyfriend. It’s slightly more complicated, with you being married and all. So we just need to cross you off our list.’

  I try to figure out how I’m expected to react in this scenario. I can think of no precedent for a married man whose ex-girlfriend is missing. I decide to go with the panicked boyfriend response.

  ‘Emily is missing. Missing! What are you actually doing to find her? Have you got any leads?’

  ‘You know we can’t discuss that,’ Robins says, putting me back in my place with a sweet smile: married ex-boyfriend.

  I sigh. ‘Am I under caution?’

  ‘No, of course not. And like I said, you’re under no legal obligation to talk to us. If you want a solicitor—’

  ‘No, I don’t, thanks.’ I’m not falling for that. A confession would be just as incriminating.

  ‘Okay. Let’s just go back to Friday for a minute, then. Did you stay at your friend’s house in Brighton?’

  ‘I stayed at a hotel.’

  Wilson raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Grand Albion,’ I add.

  ‘Fancy,’ he mutters as Robins shoots him a look and puts him in his place. It’s obvious who is running the show here.

  ‘What time did you check in?’

  I feel a dull ache in the centre of my chest. ‘About ten p.m.’

  ‘And you checked out at?’

  ‘Just before midday.’

  ‘Did you leave the hotel between ten p.m. and midday Saturday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any visitors?’

  I look at her. My heartbeat quickens.

  ‘Roy,’ Robins repeats, ‘did you have any visitors?’

  I realize this is it. If I don’t say something now, I’ll have no alibi.

  ‘Yes, one. Celia Brown.’

  Robins looks at me, her face itself a question mark.

  I take a breath. I pull myself together.

  It’s time for act two.

  ‘My girlfriend.’

  MIA

  Tuesday, 8th December

  Sometimes I feel like I’m in a film. I see myself from the outside, an invisible critic floating above the film-me. I hear Roy speak and I dissociate. I see my legs buckle, my arm stick out in the dark, groping for something to hold on to. I watch as I lean on the radiator in the hall, my face contorting with pain and anger while the hot metal sears through my tights.

  Robins’ voice, louder than before, snaps me out of it.

  ‘Girlfriend?’ she says.

  I don’t know what to think anymore.

  Roy speaks. ‘I met Celia a few weeks ago. We . . . we fell in love. I was with her on Friday.’

  Was it that simple?

  ‘Right, let me wrap my head around this,’ the man says. ‘You’ve been sleeping with one woman, whilst married to another and in love with a third?’

  There’s a moment of complete silence, then Robins speaks.

  ‘Was Miss . . .’ She pauses. ‘Celia with you all night?’

  ‘Yes. She arrived about forty-five minutes after I checked in. She . . . umm . . . stayed the night.
In the morning, we ordered breakfast, must be around nine a.m. She left shortly afterwards.’

  ‘I see,’ she says. ‘Could you help us with her details? Please.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Another long pause. I picture Roy writing down this woman’s details in his schoolboy handwriting, his DNA embedded in every neatly etched letter.

  ‘I’ll need her full postal address as well.’

  ‘I – I haven’t got it.’

  ‘You say you’re in love with this woman but you don’t know where she lives?’ the man asks.

  Roy’s reply comes a beat too soon. I can almost picture him, defiant, head cocked to one side, meeting the detective’s gaze squarely. ‘She lives in Brighton.’

  ‘Why would you go to a hotel then?’

  ‘Her husband . . .’ Roy trails off.

  ‘Of course,’ the man snorts, loud enough that I can hear it outside. Or perhaps it’s all so ludicrous that I fill the pause with an imaginary snort.

  I hear Robins speak. ‘Does Ms Brown have a job?’

  ‘She’s a dancer. Freelance.’

  An excruciatingly long pause, and then Roy speaks. ‘Will you be contacting her?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, no. I just . . . perhaps you could be discreet. Like I said, her husband . . .’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about discretion.’

  By the time I realize the conversation is over, it’s too late for me to run up without being seen. So I stand there and act as if I’ve just come in.

  The detectives come through with Roy and from the look on their faces it’s obvious.

  No one buys it.

  MIA

  Tuesday, 8th December

  I sit on the bottom step and stare at the back of his head, my husband’s head, as he shows the detectives out. We used to joke that we could step inside each other’s brains and pluck out entire sentences before the thoughts could even complete themselves.

  These days even the things he says out loud baffle me. Roy moves slightly and I look away.

  The newspaper sticking out of my bag catches my eye. I pull it out and read through the article again, properly this time.

  POLICE EXPAND SEARCH FOR MISSING

  LONDON STUDENT

  A large-scale search operation has been launched for twenty-one-year-old journalism student Emily Barnett, who has been missing for three days. Emily, who graduated from King’s College, London, earlier this year was reported missing on Saturday evening, after failing to attend her brother’s engagement party. Miss Barnett is described as 5ft 8ins tall with brown eyes and long blonde hair.

  More than a hundred people, including police officers and coastguard staff, as well as specialist dog units and search and rescue helicopters, have been searching for Miss Barnett after staff from the Seaford Head Hotel in East Sussex confirmed last night that she was a guest at the hotel. Miss Barnett checked in on Friday evening and was last seen at the hotel restaurant around 9 p.m. on the same night. Miss Barnett is believed to have been alone.

  With its limestone cliffs, Seaford is infamous for being the suicide hotspot of the UK. The first searches were concentrated in the cove area until midnight on Sunday and then resumed all day on Monday amidst speculation that Miss Barnett’s case is being treated as high priority due to widespread public interest. Miss Barnett’s brother, Daniel Barnett, head of the London-based PR firm Wolfe & Barnett, launched the #FindEmily social media campaign on Sunday to appeal for any information on Miss Barnett’s whereabouts. It is understood that an anonymous call to the campaign tip line led the police to Seaford.

  The police have not yet confirmed if Emily’s disappearance is being treated as suspicious.

  By the time I finish reading I am shaking all over. I can feel my edges getting softer, slipping away as the darkness begins to descend. A single word anchors me.

  Seaford.

  I force myself to think about everything that happened the other day. Not my usual sugar-coated version of events, but the real, stubborn truth. Roy shoved me and smashed his phone to pieces. I force myself to consider what might have happened if he didn’t have the phone to hand.

  A memory from years ago, still sharp, resurfaces. I’d come home late from a party. Roy was furious because I had forgotten to text him. He said that he had been worried, that I shouldn’t have been so irresponsible. But I was with George, you knew I was safe, I said. Things got out of hand. He wept. He promised it would never happen again. I believed him. I convinced myself that any man would lose his temper if his wife stayed out all night; that a single push didn’t constitute abuse. I called in sick the next morning.

  I am amazed at my own gullibility.

  The sound of the door closing jolts me back to the present.

  I’ve spent the past few days trying to bargain my way back into my marriage, convincing myself I can make it work. I’ve been telling myself Roy’s words only hurt so much because they are true, that his guilt only feels superficial because I’m being unrealistic. I’ve been blaming myself, bending over backwards to try and see things from Roy’s point of view. I’ve been blaming Emily when clearly the only one to blame here is Roy.

  I wonder if Emily was as naive as I was.

  I think of the little piece of paper tucked in my wallet. I can’t pretend it’s irrelevant, not anymore.

  Roy’s been lying to me and to the detectives. And I’ve had enough of it.

  ROY

  Tuesday, 8th December

  I close the door and lean my head against it. That did not go well.

  I turn around to see Mia going up the stairs. Snooping again. What do I need to do to get some privacy in my own home?

  ‘Mia.’

  She doesn’t turn. I follow her up to the landing.

  ‘Mia.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she says, her back to me.

  She walks the three paces to our bedroom and I go after her. I grab her shoulder and spin her around, flattening her against the wall. She looks away.

  ‘Look at me. Mia, look at me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t want to hide this. I was going to tell you.’

  ‘How noble of you. Is this new girlfriend real or yet another one of your elaborate lies?’

  ‘Of course she’s real. Why would I lie?’

  ‘For an alibi.’

  ‘I don’t need an alibi. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘I know where you really were, Roy. You need an alibi. And who knows what lengths you’d go to to get one? I’d have to be stupid to believe anything you say anymore.’

  ‘You’re being crazy.’

  ‘Show me a picture.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because she doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Because I care about her,’ I say. I relax my grip on her. I soften my voice. ‘And I don’t want to cause you any more pain. Our marriage means something to me.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ she smirks.

  ‘Will you listen to me for once?’

  ‘Why? Did you think of something else that you want? Shall I placate your mother? Or fund your next trip around the world? Or bend over so you can screw me?’ she spits out. She closes her eyes, lets out a breath, and then opens them again. ‘What do you want from me?’ she says. The look she gives me is chilling.

  I let her go. I step back. What happened to the carefree, funny, gorgeous woman I married? ‘That’s just it. I don’t want anything from you.’

  ‘Because there’s nothing left for you to take,’ she mutters, her retort lost in a puff of air. She turns around and walks into the bedroom.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says, flicking on the light.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said there’s nothing left for you to take,’ she says, spinning around to face me. She lets her bag drop to the floor, its contents spilling out with a clatter.

  ‘What have I taken from you, Mia?’

&nb
sp; ‘Everything,’ she screams. ‘You’ve taken everything from me. I’ve spent years putting myself second, propping you up, applauding your pathetic career, paying for you, lying for—’

  ‘See this, this right here is why it’s so difficult being with you. You’re so . . . petty. All you care about is money, status—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard that before. You want a simple life. You want to travel. You want to give back to the world. Tell me, Roy, how exactly do you intend to do any of that without money? Actually, let’s be more specific, how exactly do you intend to do that without my money? I mean, you aren’t exactly the type to rough it out. You work on more submissions than commissions. You’re still holding a grudge about having to pay for your own tuition. You can’t handle so much as an auto ride in India and you plan to, what, backpack around the world?’

  ‘How dare you—’

  ‘All these years, it’s been your career, your parents, your plans. You. You. You. That’s all this marriage has been about. What about me?’ She collapses on the bed. ‘What about me, Roy? All I ever did was love you. And you – you used me. You broke us!’

  She looks up at me, tears pooling in her eyes. She looks so vulnerable that for a moment, my anger subsides. I am reminded of the woman I fell in love with. She did love me. Probably still does, in her own twisted way. I can’t fault her for that.

  ‘How could you do this to me, Roy?’

  It doesn’t matter who I fell in love with, this is who I married – an angry, jealous, bitter woman. I remind myself that I still need her, but the words slip out before I can stop them.

  ‘I had an affair, yes, but only because being with you is so fucking painful. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘Don’t you dare try to pin this on me. We were happy. And then you fucked up. You did something you couldn’t come back from and now you’re trying to convince yourself it wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Oh, this is rich coming from you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You manage to convince yourself you’re the victim in every situation. The righteous little girl wronged by the whole world. Do you have any idea what all I’ve been forced to do for—’